


The Brain Storm

by The_Prince_of_Dots



Category: Thomas Sanders
Genre: Gen, roman gets struck by lightning a little bit, stock character gets pushed off a cliff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Prince_of_Dots/pseuds/The_Prince_of_Dots
Summary: Sometimes, Roman needs a little help creating ideas.





	The Brain Storm

Most days, it was easy for Roman to be creative. After all, he  _was_  the literal manifestation of Creativity. To create, for him, was to live; it was his pride and joy, his  _raison d’etre_ , the thing that made his spirits leap and his energy unboundless.

Other days, it was a lot more work. On days like this, he felt blocked off from the others, trapped in a blank mind palace, a white void that after a while was grating on both his vision and his nerves. On those days, it was a frustrating slog to produce any ideas at all. On those days, he had to visit the Brain Storm.

So here he was, dragging a treasure chest of tropes, a handbag of half-finished plots, and a carriage of flat characters that he hoped to put a little bit of personality into. After all, the Storm wouldn’t do anything without a sacrifice. A storm with no substance was just hot air and potential. He walked on into the blinding whiteness, listening for the distant thundering of unconnected thoughts.

Eventually, he found it. The storm was weak and listless, overturning old thoughts with apathy. Roman stood on a cliff, several stories above even the highest of the storm’s clouds. Well, that would never do. The storm needed to be bigger, and stronger. The storm needed some substance to feed on.

Roman grabbed the lightest of the things he’d brought: the plots. At the edge of the cliff, he emptied the bag. Out fell a pointless subplot of the Life With a Narrator story, a briefly entertained idea about a boat, a broken pair of headphones, and three pizza boxes (oh, so many vines depended on pizza).

The storm snapped them up with an inhuman joy. The objects were ripped apart at their very being, going from concrete ideas to abstract clouds of thought. The wind picked up, and the clouds were whipped up into the air, growing taller by the minute. It was a start, but it was still hardly a storm.

Roman grabbed the box of tropes next. Unlike the plot threads, he couldn’t just dump all the tropes into the storm. That would be chaotic, and usually ended up with a poor result. But which ones to choose?

He reached into the box, feeling for something familiar. Instead of something familiar, he grabbed two things that felt cold and gross, like they’d been in the fridge for too long. The first was the Large Ham trope. The second, a Cold Turkey. Wrinkling his nose, he tossed them into the storm. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as static electricity suddenly filled the air. The wind started blowing harder, and the storm took on a circular motion. Good. Almost ready.

Roman went to the carriage, and selected a character. It looked exactly like Thomas, if Thomas was a stock photo. If Roman remembered correctly, the only character trait this stock Thomas had was that it enjoyed going fishing. “Take it easy, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals!” the stock Thomas said as Roman brought it to the edge of the cliff. Roman pushed it off the edge with casual disdain. “Take it eaaaaasyyyyy,” it said, falling and disappearing.

There was a loud  _crack_  of thunder and a flash of lightning. Roman was left seeing spots and with ringing in his ears. The storm now seemed just shy of a hurricane, lightning crackling through previously unseen connections within the clouds, the wind howling, tearing thoughts apart and pushing them together at random. Roman had a wild grin on his face as rain soaked through his royal attire and lightning threatened to strike him.

Suddenly, he  _was_  struck. The perfect idea hit him with the power of several thousand volts, and, slightly singed, he whooped with joy. Today’s short video was going to be perfect.


End file.
